


Gaslight

by FidotheFinch



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Child Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gaslighting, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-06-18 03:59:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15477201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FidotheFinch/pseuds/FidotheFinch
Summary: "I missed you. What other reason would I need?"Damian receives a gift from his mother: a way to keep in contact with her. Perhaps this is not for the best.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know that Talia's character has been "interpreted" several different ways throughout canon. In this interpretation, Talia is not a bad person, but that doesn't necessarily mean she's a good mother.

“I found him!” Nightwing cried into his comm. Batman was halfway across the facility, keeping the League of Assassins focused on defending their laser. He and Batman hadn’t known it was there until they had arrived, but it was easy enough to make it look like it was their intention to destroy it. It made the “distraction” part of the “distraction-and-extraction” job easy. Nobody was in the eastern wing of the facility, excepting Nightwing, the guard lying unconscious at his feet, and Robin, on the other side of the heavy wooden door.

Nightwing turned the knob and pushed experimentally. It was locked.

“Robin!” He whisper-shouted through the small window. The boy was laid out on a bed in the corner of the room. When he didn’t immediately respond, Nightwing’s heart skipped a beat. He waited until he saw Robin’s chest rise and fall before he tried calling out again. “Damian!”

Still no response, so he knelt by the guard to search his pocket for keys. It was the only one on a large keyring attached to the guard’s belt sash. The door unlocked with heavy _clunk_ , and Nightwing held back just long enough to think to pull the key from the lock before rushing inside.

His brother was lying on his side, so Nightwing carefully rolled him to his back to check for any injuries. His breath caught in his throat: there was blood caked to the side of his face, still oozing groggily from an impact wound near his temple.

“What is his status?” came Batman’s gruff voice through the comm.

Dick swallowed, shaking Damian lightly by his shoulder a few times. “He’s unconscious. Bleeding from a head wound, but I can’t tell how bad it is.”

“Can you move him?”

Nightwing did a cursory check of the rest of Robin’s body, but there was nothing more than a few bruises he could have gotten from the initial kidnapping. “Yes.”

“Take him to the extraction point. I’ll meet you there.”

Dick gathered the boy into his arms gingerly. He didn’t stir.

  

* * *

 

 

Damian woke up when the Batmobile braked inside the Cave. He fiddled with his domino mask, eager to take it off. The spirit gum was not mean to be worn for so long, and the material was becoming itchy with a combination of dried sweat, blood, and sand.

Batman, sitting up front, released the steering wheel with a sigh. “We’re back,” he announced to nobody in particular.

Nightwing was the first out of the car. He stretched his legs and cracked his back the second he had the room to do it. “I think I’ll crash here for the night?”

Batman hummed an affirmative and hoisted himself out of the car.

Damian fumbled with the door handle until it opened from the outside, and Batman bent down to scoop him out.

“I can walk,” Damian protested, the sudden feeling of being carried reminding him too much of his most recent encounter with his Mother.

 

_“That is no way to greet your mother.”_

His squirming didn’t get him anywhere. His father carried him straight to the med bay, where Pennyworth was waiting for him.

The older man sucked in a breath at the sight of how much blood had dried down the side of Damian’s face. “I trust you have already checked for a concussion?” Even as he spoke, he carefully peeled the Robin mask off.

“It’s nothing,” Damian insisted. “Head wounds bleed a lot.” He squinted in the penlight Pennyworth held up.

“When we found you, you were unresponsive.” Grayson had followed them into the room, wearing a frown instead of his mask.

Pennyworth clicked the light off, and suddenly Damian’s lap was fascinating. There was a bitter taste on the back of his tongue, something warm and heavy causing his eyelids to droop. He chose his words carefully, not wanting to believe it himself. “I have reason to believe I was drugged.”

He tugged at the fingers of his gloves and pushed back his sleeves to reveal his forearms. His old scars gleamed in the medical light, but he didn’t see anything indicative of a needle. “It may have been the—something I ingested.”

 

_“Here, this will help you feel better.” She had pushed a steaming cup of tea across the table toward him. “I made it just how you like it.”_

_Damian had inhaled, the tightness in his chest loosening at the familiar smell of jasmine and honey. “Thank you, Mother.” The first sip had tasted like home._

“Damian?” Grayson’s brow was furrowed.

Damian shook his head. “It’s nothing,” he repeated.

His brother’s eyes softened in the way that signaled he was about to start getting mushy, but his father beat him to the punch. “What do you remember?”

This was an easier question than whatever Grayson was gearing up to ask, and Damian allowed his Robin persona to answer. “I was ambushed at the docks. A dozen assassins from the League scaled the walls, and my lookout point did not provide proper coverage.” Or escape route, he didn’t add.

Batman nodded. “The tip turned out to be false. There was nothing aboard the ship out of the ordinary.”

“They managed to incapacitate me.” He swallowed, feeling the phantom pressure of an arm around his neck. He resisted reaching up to feel for the bruises he was sure were there. “Mother sent them, to take me ho—to bring me to her.”

 

_“I missed you, what other reason would I need?”_

 

“What did she want?” Nightwing asked, a hint of venom creeping into his voice.

Before Damian could even answer with a shrug, Batman steered the conversation a different direction. “Thalia was there?”

He directed the question toward Nightwing, who did have the time to shrug. “I searched the entire building, I didn’t see her.”

Damian stared at the wall of the Cave, trying to push through the fog in his memory. “She left. She had a meeting.”

“With who?”

“With _whom_ ,” Pennyworth corrected.

It was on the tip of his tongue, the impression of the silhouette of somebody he recognized, but when he looked he couldn’t make out the edges. Damian shook his head, hands clenching the sides of the cot. “I don’t remember.”

 

_“I wish you could come with me, but with your father’s influence I can’t trust you to behave.”_

 

Damian blinked, and then Grayson was in his face, squatting in front of the cot so he could look at him eye-to-eye. He smiled, but it was tight with worry. “It’s okay you can’t remember, we’ll take care of it. Why don’t you get to bed?”

 

_“—wake up after I return. This wouldn’t be necessary if you hadn’t rejected me—”_

Damian shook his head again, but to his horror, he felt a yawn threaten to creep in. He clenched his jaw so he wouldn’t look foolish, but his father’s face still softened beneath his cowl. “We’ll get a blood sample, then you can get cleaned up and sleep off whatever is lingering in your system.”

Grayson ruffled his hair on the way out—avoiding the knot forming on his forehead—and smiled softly at Damian’s scowl. “Glad we got you back, Dames.”

 

 

Later, after he had scrubbed the blood and sand off until he felt like he could leave the whole incident behind himself, he retrieved the pile of his Robin gear that he had left on a bench near the shower. (Pennyworth refused to enter the locker rooms ‘for his own safety’—Damian had learned from experience it meant his Robin uniform would not be washed if he left it where he took it off.)

Something fluttered from the pile onto the floor.

He stopped at the sound, craning his neck around the overflowing cape in his hands. It was an envelope, his name scrawled across it in familiar handwriting. His mother’s handwriting.

Damian tensed.

She must have planted it on his uniform somewhere, where Nightwing and Batman and himself wouldn’t notice it easily. The thought made his skin crawl. He had been unconscious long enough for her to work through his suit’s defenses.

And seeing a piece of her, here. . . it was unsettling.

He looked out into the Cave. His father was at the Batcomputer, working on a report. The rest of the Cave was empty.  

He slid the envelope under his shirt and crept up to his room.

 

* * *

 

Damian sat on his bed, flipping the envelope between his hands. It was high quality, nothing less than what he would expect from the al Ghul household. The off-white, vaguely vanilla-scented paper was too thick for a light to reveal what was inside, so Damian fiddled with it while he prepared himself to open it.

It was probably just a letter. There was no reason to be _afraid_. . .

 

_“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of me.” She had stepped back, arms and the corners of her mouth dropping. “What lies has your father told you, that you wouldn’t accept the embrace of your own mother?”_

Damian used the knife under his pillow to open the envelope. Inside was a folded piece of paper, of the same quality as the envelope. Just a letter. Damian’s shoulders drooped—he hadn’t realized he had allowed them to tense. He slid the paper out and unfolded it.

It was blank, except for a single line of text, written in his mother’s familiar scrawl. An unmistakable URL.

He dove under his bed to retrieve his laptop and sat back with it propped on his knees. The URL was mostly a long string of numbers, but it led to a webpage that promised it was secure, according to his laptop’s security. It was almost empty, except for a button in the middle that just said “call.”

Damian chewed on the inside of his cheek, staring at the button.

 

_“I missed you, what other reason would I need?”_

He clicked it before he could talk himself out of it. It was just a video call.

And he missed his mother, too.

The tinny sound of a “phone” ringing on the other end continued for almost a full minute. Damian was about to give up and turn off his laptop when the ringing stopped. The page went black a moment, then there was his mother’s face.

“Damian.” She smiled at him, and Damian fought the creep of his own lips to mirror hers.

“Mother,” he responded coolly. He bunched his fists in his sheets. He wouldn’t let her get in his head again. It had been a disaster at the facility. He couldn’t trust her. “What do you want?”

She had the decency to look offended at his abrupt tone. “I realized there was a chance you would disappear before I returned. I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday.”

“My birthday was over a month ago.” He remembered it well because he spent it alone in his room with his paints, the rest of his family unaware of its date because he wanted it that way.

She pouted on the screen. “I know, I know. When I didn’t hear from you, I assumed you never got the gift I sent.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed, trying to look for the micro-expressions indicating a lie in his mother’s façade. When he couldn’t find anything—but then, she had been trained by the best, much like himself—he admitted a quiet, “No.”

She sighed. “Your father must have taken it. He’s a paranoid fool.” At the sound of footsteps, she looked away from the camera a moment. “No, no, no, I said I am _busy!_ ”

His shoulders tensed at the tone.

 

_“I said no. What part of that do you not understand?”_

 

The footsteps retreated quickly. Thalia’s eyes drifted back toward Damian. “You are becoming more like him.”

There was a time Damian would have preened at the idea, but the way she phrased it, it was not supposed to be a compliment. So he chose to ignore the comment. “Why would he do something like that, unless it were dangerous?”

Thalia shrugged heavily. “He does not want me close to you.”

Damian slid the laptop back, away from his face. “You tried to—you killed me.”

His mother gasped. “How could you even _say_ that?”

He was caught off-guard by the reaction. She seemed to be genuinely upset. “You had a hit on me—”

“That was your Grandfather’s doing.”

“You sent a clone to kill me.”

“He was never supposed to hurt you.” Her tone grew sharp as she spoke. “I lost control of the matter when your father interfered.”

Damian pressed his lips together. “You are lying.”

“No, Damian.” She was soft again, using the tone he knew from late nights as a child, his mother telling him the stories of Alexander the Great. “I love you. I miss you.”

He was quiet. His mother had never. . . it had to be some kind of manipulation. But she seemed sincere.

And he wanted her to be telling the truth.

Thalia cleared her throat. “I really must be going, there is always work to be done. You understand why you can’t tell your father about this?”

Damian nodded brusquely.

Thalia smiled, and it was radiant. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, love.”

He snapped out of his thoughts when she reached to turn off her camera. “Wait.”

Thalia stopped, head tilted to the side, curious. “What is it?”

“You drugged me.”

Thalia frowned. “No, I didn’t.”

“Yes—”

“The imbeciles I sent to retrieve you didn’t take the proper care. You were dizzy, and hit your head on the table.”

Damian’s eyebrows furrowed. “No, I don’t remember—” He cut himself off abruptly when Thalia’s face tightened in irritation.

“That’s what happened. Your memory has never been very good.” She looked down at a beautiful watch on her slender wrist. “I have to go.”

“Mother—”

The screen went back to its blank, the “call” button missing. Damian huffed, starting to snap his laptop shut. Then he paused, eyeing the URL again. He wouldn’t be able to memorize it. And she had promised they could talk tomorrow.

He bookmarked the site and rolled over for bed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, guys. School is back in session. 
> 
> According to Wikipedia, the League of Assassins headquarters is in ‘Eth Alth’eban in the New 52. I don't know enough bat-lore to contest that, so that's what I'm using.

“Master Damian, it is morning.”

Damian squinted in the light that poured in from the drawn curtains. It was unlike himself to sleep so late, but he would attribute the slip in his routine to the drugs.

 

_“You were dizzy, and hit your head on the table.”_

 

He sat up, disturbing Alfred the cat, who gave him a distasteful look as he leapt off the bed. Damian didn’t notice; he was too caught up in his thoughts. A single hand wandered up to feel the knot on his forehead. The swelling had gone down, and in the middle of it a scab had formed. It must have been caused by the fall.

“I advise you don’t irritate your wound, lest it take more than a few days to heal.”

There was a time when Damian would have scoffed at the thinly-veiled reprimand, but those days had long passed in favor of eating something other than overcooked vegetables. There was no denying he had suffered a head injury, but nothing bad enough it would have knocked him unconscious. “I don’t have a concussion,” he repeated to himself out loud.

Pennyworth’s mustache twitched. “Perhaps not, but I am beginning to wonder if a reassessment is in order.”

Before he could finish his sentence, Damian was pushing his covers back and slipping shoes on in preparation for Titus’ morning walk. “That won’t be necessary.” Even so, he hesitated before grabbing Titus’ leash. “I feel nothing out of the ordinary.”

He unwound the leash deliberately slowly, careful to not make eye contact as he asked, “Did the bloodwork come back?” A click of his tongue and Titus bounded off the bed. A point to the floor made him sit so he could attach the leash to his collar. Pennyworth watched, stepping aside with practiced ease when Titus lunged for the bedroom door. Damian held fast, commanding, “Titus, heel. Wait a minute.” He stopped right next to his butler, waiting expectantly.

“The computer didn’t recognize anything.”

Damian gave a curt nod to cover his surprise. “Good. I intend to continue patrol tonight.” Something that had been tight unclenched in his stomach. No drugs.

“I think not.”

The tone made even Titus, who had nosed himself halfway into the hallway, pause. Damian clicked his tongue in irritation. “Why not?”

“Master Bruce needs to attend a fundraising event tonight, and Master Richard has returned to Blüdhaven.”

Damian’s grip on Titus’ leash tightened. “You expect me to attend the gala with Father.”

“You know as well as I that it is best if your father has a . . . chaperone.”

Damian squinted at the butler’s face, trying to find a hint of amusement. The man was good; he found none. Damian shook the tenseness from his shoulders. “I suppose you are correct. I am the best suited for the job.”

Pennyworth’s lips creeped up the smallest amount. “Of course.”

 

* * *

 

The gala began at 1900 hours. Damian had attended enough of the events to estimate his father’s schedule during and leading up to it. At 1700 hours, he and his father ate an early dinner, because Pennyworth insisted they not spoil it on hors d’oevres and mini-desserts. By 1745 hours, his father had retreated to his room to prepare for the Gala. He would remain there until he was “fashionably late,” as his idiotic Brucie persona liked to call it.

It was the perfect opportunity.

The Batcave wouldn’t be occupied for the night, and Pennyworth and his father were undoubtedly busy and wouldn’t notice his absence. He left Titus in his room, snoozing in front of the door to deter suspicion.

Most of the Batcave lights had been turned off, leaving only the glow of the Batcomputer to light Damian’s way. He only spared a glance at the program running on the screen—some kind of chemical analysis, probably for one of Ivy or Scarecrow’s toxins—before pulling up the security footage.

He had no doubt that a present from his mother would have arrived precisely when it was supposed to. It was easy to find the day for which he was searching in the computer’s well-organized file system. There were several camera angles, but Damian chose the one that showed the majority of the Cave.

There were hours of footage showing nothing but the computer screen scanning the police radio lines. He stopped speeding through it when the lights switched on. On the screen, he was following Grayson down the steps to the Batcave, Alfred the cat in his arms. The two of them went straight to the mats to warm up and stretch, the cat reverently released onto his favorite perch on the top of a filing cabinet. Damian remembered the day; Grayson had invited him to spar before going out for the night. It had quickly devolved.

Damian fought the heat rising to his cheeks watching himself trying to run up the Cave walls as far as Grayson could. He had been certain he was close, but from this perspective it was clear that he wouldn’t be able to do it until he was much taller.

He sped up the playback.

His father eventually joined them, but sent them to the dressing rooms without him. They had quickly obliged, and emerged in uniform briefly before heading out ahead of him. Damian scoffed, watching how eagerly he had hopped onto Nightwing’s bike. He wouldn’t have admitted it, but he had been looking forward to patrol with Grayson. It had been weeks.

His father sat at his computer for nearly another hour afterward, typing and reviewing reports. Damian almost gave up, reaching for the mouse to close the window, when Pennyworth reemerged at the top of the Cave’s entrance, a package cradled in his arms.

He gasped. He would recognize a package from his mother anywhere. She always wrapped his gifts in fine silks in the al Ghul colors, pinned together artistically with a brooch of precious materials. In his room at ho—at his mother’s house, he had a display case full of the jewelry. They were intended to be used to fasten his cape when he inherited the traditional clothing of the Demon’s Head.

Pennyworth set the package on a bench in the workshop. Damian zoomed in to see it better. He recognized the brooch as the one given to him on his eight birthday. It was one of his favorites, a golden coiled snake dotted with precious stones. The tiny, delicate mouth could be opened, revealing fangs that were filled with a neurotoxin that could render the victim unconscious in a matter of seconds. It had been his mother’s way of keeping him safe, making sure he would always have a weapon—

A large hand wearing rubber gloves carelessly pulled it from the silk, tearing runs into the fabric. Damian watched, horrified, as his father used a pair of heavy-duty wire cutters to snip off the head of the snake and poured the venom into a waiting test tube. The rest of the brooch got little more than a passing glance before it was thrown into the garbage set for incineration.

As if on cue, another window popped up on the screen.

**Chemical analysis completed.**

He only clicked on the notification to confirm what he already knew: the vial was filled with neurotoxin. With a new heat simmering in his chest, he closed both windows and returned upstairs.

 

* * *

 

 

“Oh, you two look so alike!”

Damian scowled up at the woman. He didn’t see the resemblance; his father was a traitor.

Bruce grinned down at Damian’s furrowed brow like a buffoon. “When he makes faces like that, I think he takes more after his mother.”

Daphne Pentshire laughed at the joke but was quick to steer the conversation away from any mention of his father’s past relationships. Damian was happy enough to let her prattle on about the ‘adventures’—she said it with half-lidded eyes and a sly smile—she had had on her new yacht. His father kept making choked noises in the back of his throat, none-too-surreptitiously glancing at Damian and back as she continued.

“I thought it would be cooler out on the water, but it was so _hot_. I felt like I was _burning_ on the sheets. The air was so _humid_ , Brucie, you wouldn’t believe. I hardly slept the whole time we were there.” Here she paused, stepping closer to his father so she could drop her voice to a whisper. “Maybe next time you should come with me?”

The Brucie façade was flawless. He stood loose and still, a playful smile on his face. The only giveaway was the large vein across the back of his hand that Damian watched pulse with irritation.

Damian scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Daphne, my father has much better things to do than waste his time in bed with _you_.”

She shot a glare at him over Bruce’s shoulder. “ _Brucie_ ,” she pleaded, the hint of a growl probably directed at Damian.

Bruce sighed and shook her off his shoulders. “Damian, don’t be rude to our guests.”

Evidently it wasn’t quite the right thing she wanted to hear, because her cheeks burned with anger and embarrassment as she stalked away. Damian smirked at her back.

A large hand landed on his shoulder as Bruce leaned down to talk to him. “Is everything okay?”

Damian stepped from beneath his father’s shadow. “It is a good thing Pennyworth sent me to babysit you.” He crossed his arms. “There are an exceptional number of _vipers_ tonight.” He was facing the crowd, but all of his attention was on his father’s face, trying to gauge his reaction.

If Bruce caught on to his hint, he didn’t show it. He chuckled, fixing his cufflinks. “You’re thinking of cougars.” Damian’s heart fell. Not obvious enough. His father’s smile took on an air of irony as he continued, “And there are less here than usual. You should have seen the way Dick used to have to fight them off.”

Damian scrunched his nose at the thought. “They like to pretend their attention is a _gift._ ” He watched for some sign of recognition: a twitch of the eyelid, a frown.

When his father’s brows pull together, Damian thought he had him caught. But: “You seem anxious.” He brushed Damian’s makeshift bangs back. They had had to style his hair differently to avoid drawing attention to the bruise there. Bruce stared at the spot, buried under layers of concealer. “Is it your head? Do you need to leave?”

“No,” Damian said, hating the petulance he could hear in his own voice. “My head is fine.”

“The kid doing alright?” An older man with sweaty palms asked, managing to do it without looking in Damian’s direction. Damian subtly shifted his head in the man’s direction. He was wearing a cufflink with the insignia they had found on the order forms found in a recent human trafficking bust. He was intel.

His father searched his eyes one more moment. “Let me know if it starts to feel worse, and we’ll both leave.”

“My head doesn’t hurt,” Damian murmured. He brushed his bangs back into place as his father stood.

“Mr. Wayne?”

“Most people call me Bruce.”

It would take a while for the conversation to steer toward anything beneficial. Damian wandered toward the buffet table, picking over a paltry array of truffles and tarts. His stomach was swimming with something ugly.

As if on cue, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Damian meandered to one of the walls in the Grand Hall with a lemon-lavender tartlette in one hand. He nibbled on it as he flit through the notifications on his phone.

**New message: UNKNOWN**

Curious, he used his fingerprint to unlock his messages. And almost dropped the tartlette.

**UNKNOWN: Call me**.

He had no doubt who it was. He held the rest of the tartlette in his mouth so he could use both hands to return a message.

**Can’t. Gala.**

The message bounced back, the recipient unrecognized. Damian growled and shoved the phone back in his pocket.

 

_That is no way to greet your mother._

 

He tensed, his hands clenching into fists at his side.

When he had woken up to the crisp mountain air of ‘Eth Alth’eban, it was with the memory of being restrained and tossed into the back of a van. If he had known it wasn’t his mother’s fault, that she had only ordered for them to bring him home. . .

He would have done something different, right?

Damian couldn’t finish the tartlette, so threw the rest away. He composed himself by the trash can, reigning in his frustration in favor of something that would look more believable. Careful not to overdo it, he walked slowly back to his father and chose to stand just a hair closer than he had been before.

The conversation with the man with the incriminating pin had apparently gone nowhere, because his father was pretending to listen to a rant about the new bus stop by the parks. So Damian felt no guilt brushing Bruce’s hand and whispering, “Father.”

Bruce halted the other man’s rant with a hand and immediately switched his attention to his son. “Damian? You feeling worse?” A large palm came to his forehead, presumably to check for fever.

He didn’t think he could outright _lie_ to the world’s greatest detective, but he figured staring at the floor and leaning slightly into his touch would convey the same meaning without having to manipulate his own micro-expressions. “I wish to return to the Manor.”

Without question, his father nodded. “Sorry, Phil, I have to go. Family emergency.”

 

* * *

 

Pennyworth was waiting for them in the garage, and Bruce practically forced Damian to lie down across the bench of the limo while they steadily made the journey back to the Manor.

Damian’s phone buzzed in his pocket again. He didn’t dare check it.

That gross feeling was back in his gut. He fixated on the pin in the breast of his father’s tuxedo, mentally comparing it to his own collection. His father’s pin wasn’t even functional; just a decoration.

His phone buzzed again while they were stopped at a light, and this time Bruce noticed.

“Who keeps texting you?”

Damian shrugged. “Probably Grayson. He sends memes while he’s on day-job patrol.”

Bruce harrumphed. “Memes during patrol?”

“He says it helps his secret identity.”

They both exchanged looks, and the eye roll wasn’t quite there but it was heavily implied.

His phone buzzed again.

“Are you going to check it?”

“No.” He pulled his phone out and set it to silent. The brief glimpse he got of his screen showed 10 unread messages. Careful to stay composed, he slipped it back in his pocket.

His father didn’t press, probably with a begrudging understanding of the pitfalls of interacting with meme-drunk Dick. But it left silence in the cab, and Damian’s phone was burning a hole in his pocket.

“Father?” Damian started. He immediately bit back his words.

Bruce watched and waited expectantly.

This was his chance. He could confront him about the gift, about his lies. But something made him bite back his words. Bruce would wonder why he started investigating in the first place. That meant giving up his communication with his mother, but he wasn’t ready to lose it again so soon.

Instead, he tried, “Did you learn anything from that Phil?”

Bruce rolled his shoulders back in irritation. “No. All the man wanted to talk about was public transportation. His company makes the glass used in the windows.” He looked out his own window for a moment, replaying the conversation more closely. “But something about him feels off. We should keep an eye on him, just in case.”

Damian nodded. The rest of the ride was spent in silence.

 

* * *

 

 

He rushed to his room as soon as they arrived at the Manor. Luckily, a few words assuring he was just tired was enough to dissuade his father or Pennyworth from following. While he made the short journey, he checked his messages.

**UNKOWN: Call me.**

**UNKOWN: Damian, call me.**

**UNKOWN: What are you doing? Why aren’t you calling me?**

**UNKOWN: Are you avoiding me?**

**UKNOWN: Are you trying to hide something from me?**

**UNKOWN: Did you tell your father?**

He locked his bedroom door behind him. His laptop was where he had left it, open on the desk by the window. He woke it up and navigated his bookmarks for the website.

Same thing: a blank screen, except for the icon in the middle. His phone dinged with another text, and it was all it took to convince him to click the button.

It rang several times. Damian waited, knee bouncing. Maybe she had given up on him? Decided it wasn’t worth her time to wait? After the seventh, the screen opened the video window.

He had to hold back his sigh of relief. “Good evening, Moth—”

She cut him off with a raised hand. “Is this how your father is raising you?”

His mouth snapped shut.

“You’re late. Explain yourself.”

He felt his spine straighten at the tone.

_You failed the mission. Explain yourself._

“I was attending a Gala. I didn’t have my laptop with me.”

Talia’s face scrunched up. “There is no excuse. I waited nearly an hour! Do you have any idea what I could have accomplished in an hour?”

“I didn’t know you were going to call me at the time.”

“I told you I would talk to you, didn’t I?”

“I am sorry—”

She scoffed. “Apologies accomplish nothing. Do better next time.”

Damian dipped his chin in a shallow nod. “Yes, Mother.” It was robotic: a motion and tone drilled into him for a decade. It surprised him how easily he fell back into it.

Her eyes roamed his face, and she sighed, façade melting into something more approachable. “I do not like yelling at you. Please don’t make me do it again.”

Something inside him bristled. A deep memory itched to surface, but he pushed it down.

He wanted to change topics, but wasn’t sure what his mother would accept. So he sat in silence, studying the image on his screen. In a window behind her head, he could see fronds from some kind of tropical plant. And her dress was the lighter material she often wore in warmer climates. Most telling of all, it was dark outside. She wasn’t half a world away. She wasn’t in ‘Eth Alth’eban.

He didn’t dare ask where she was.

“So, what did you find?”

He blinked, her question and rapid change in tone startling him. “What?”

She clicked her tongue. “Don’t tell me you didn’t investigate. I raised you better.”

He kept his face carefully neutral. “I did.”

“And?”

He couldn’t meet her gaze. “You were right. He took the gift and destroyed it.”

Her smile glint wickedly. “I told you.”

Damian frowned. “What did you do to it?”

Talia frowned. “I did nothing. I know that is your favorite pin, and that your father wouldn’t allow you to return home anytime soon. It thought it could be useful.”

Damian suddenly realized he never did finish watching the security footage. “What was inside the box, though?”

She was starting to look irritated. “I didn’t do anything to the gift, Damian. It was a compass, gold hand-carved by the finest artist in all of India. Your father was just trying to destroy our relationship.”

He furrowed his brows. “I don’t understand why he would do that.” _Unless you did something to it,_ was implied.

Talia sighed. “You know that your father and I have different. . . goals, in life. He wants to keep you away from me. Away from my ‘influence.’” She spat it with bitterness. “He doesn’t trust you.”

His mouth went dry.

“How did he react when you told him?”

“I haven’t.” At her expression, he tacked on, “yet.”

“Damian—”

“I am. . . “ He searched for a word that wasn’t "afraid." “Father may figure out that we are still speaking. He would make us stop.” He swallowed. “I do not wish to stop.”

Talia’s grin softened. It was the same fond smile she used when he used to play violin for her. When she would carry him through the observatory and point at the stars. It made his heart ache.

“Oh, love. If only your father hadn’t stolen you away, you could be here, with me, in ‘Eth Alth’eban.”

He fought to keep a straight face. She was speaking metaphorically. She wasn’t lying.

“How is your head?”

He brushed a hand through his bangs, making sure the bruise was properly concealed. “Tt. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Did your father check for a concussion?”

“Of course. I am healthy.”

She hummed. Checked her watch. “I have to go, love. Call me tomorrow, before you patrol.”

Having a set time helped calm his nerves. At least there wouldn’t be a repeat of tonight. “I will. Goodnight, Mother.”

She paused, eyes tightening the slightest amount. Damian held his breath, realizing his slip-up. It wasn’t night in 'Eth Alth'eban.

But she let it slide. “Goodnight.”

The screen went blank.


End file.
